


Chapstick

by Lavender_Whalebones



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Eventual Smut, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Riding, Romance, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-02 22:23:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19450660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavender_Whalebones/pseuds/Lavender_Whalebones
Summary: Crowley's adorning a new chapstick, Aziraphale wants to know the flavor.





	1. Chapter 1

It all began with chapstick. 

Now neither Aziraphale or Crowley really needed chapstick, though surely they didn’t need a lot of things. Say, clothes for instance. Or the new cologne Aziraphale’s barber had suggested, or even the barber for that matter, seeing as both he and Crowley were afforded the ability to bend the shape and appearance of their own bodies within the bounds of _reason_.

Frivolity came with its benefits though, a refined sense of self, the appreciation of every passing moment, amusement. Though it also came with its downsides as well, given the rather inflated ego that Crowley sported. Aziraphale made no mention of that though, he found it endearing really, not that he’d ever openly admit that aloud of course.

Perhaps it didn’t actually begin with chapstick, in retrospect. Perhaps it began with the way that Crowley looked at him as they stood atop the walls that surrounded the Garden of Eden, the grin that played on his lips and the golden of his eyes. Lead balloon. Aziraphale had to wait until approximately 1824 to witness a balloon in flight for the first time, and yes, he could agree then that everything had in fact gone down much like a lead balloon might.

He allowed himself a small giggle at the thought. While he may have lost his sword and also “Apple Tree Duty,” he felt he’d gained so much more that day. Another thing he would never admit aloud. 

Or perhaps it had begun from the very beginning, as the ineffable plan was woven into the intangible tapestry of time and space. An inevitable beginning that never began but instead just always was, a beginning in the making. 

But for the sake of the moment, it began with cherry chapstick. 

It was fair to say that both he and Crowley enjoyed the unnecessary. Especially the delightfully unnecessary. As they both stood aside the bridge that led over shallow streams of ducks and geese into a vast and glittering lake, Crowley fished a small tube from his pocket, applying the contents generously along his lips with as much casual grace as he’d always been blessed with. 

At first, Aziraphale was content with making no mention of it. That was until he noticed the sheer sparkle against pale pink. Now he knew what Crowley’s lips looked like - not that he’d studied them before - but it was fair to say that he _knew_ that they did not sparkle, nor were they a deeper shade of pale rose, rather they typically held a shade of pink blossom in deep spring. 

So he looked up, and Crowley looked up to meet his gaze, and then he looked down, but no, he looked up again. Again he looked down. This exchange lasted roughly thirty seconds before Crowley stirred where he stood against the rail, “Spit it out angel.”

“What exactly is it that I’m spitting out?” A chuckle escaped him, awkward and weakly delivered, two hands gripping the bar and fingers tapping along antsily. 

“Oh you know what it is, come now don’t play _dumb_ with me, you’re far too clever for that.” Crowley shifted, elbow resting only inches from Aziraphale’s hands. He raised his brows expectantly, and through the shades, the angel could make out his pupils, darting along his own face.

“Well I couldn’t help but notice the new shade of maquillage, it’s quite flattering.” 

Crowley didn’t have to take his glasses off for Aziraphale to know that he’d most certainly executed the eyeroll of the century.

“Maquillage Aziraphale? It’s _chapstick_ , not parlor makeup. Can’t recall a person from this century that calls it-”

“Well nonetheless it certainly has that moxy doesn’t it?” 

Crowley looked incredulous for a moment, running a hand over his face and shaking his head, “So that’s all you had to say then? Here I was thinking you might ask something important, or perhaps-”

“Well I was curious as to the flavor of the chap-stick,” he spoke, accentuating the painfully modern term. 

“The _flavor_ , oh for fuck’s sake - it’s cherry Aziraphale. What, would you like a taste as well you cotton ball dolt?” 

“Well I do like cherry.” Aziraphale commented, perhaps a bit too casually. The pause that fell between them was pointed and the angel didn’t quite realize the implication of his words until Crowley had leaned forward almost too quickly. The usual grace of his actions was replaced by something furious, something demanding, a side of Crowley that he only caught glimpses of on rare occasions. 

A side of Crowley he had no qualms with.

Then it was lips on lips at the center of the park where the ducks floated atop the water and listened (with the ears they most certainly had) to the songs of nightingales and sparrows. His eyes were wide at first, and just briefly the thought crossed his mind that the two of them might be in big trouble with the-... 

The offices that both of them had thoroughly abandoned after the near apocalypse.

And only as Crowley tilted his head, pressed a hand to his hip to pull him closer, did he realize something crucial. Neither of them were bound by the nature of the good or the bad. Neither of them were restricted by expectations, or in fear of being punished for their disobedience.

They were free. Free to have lunch, free to fraternize, free to _kiss_ \- to do so much more in fact. He'd never felt as liberated as he had in this moment, basking in the infernal warmth of the fallen before him.

That freedom began with lip tint cherry chapstick on a warm July afternoon, away from prying eyes and nosy coworkers. All soft and chaste until it was not, until it was tongues playing along lower lips, wrestling and hungrier than ever before, neither moving to pull away seeing as breathing was more a luxury than a necessity. But this now, this long awaited friction, it was of utmost importance. 

“We never did… pay a visit to my flat.” Crowley cooed, his lips ghosting over Aziraphale’s, taunting him with the almost-contact and could-bes, should-bes if you’d asked either of them in that moment. 

“Yes I… suppose we never did. Shall we then?”


	2. Chapter 2

“Four? _Four hearts_?”

Crowley was draped across his living room sofa, Aziraphale sat at the end of it on the lounger, the two of them sipping generous amounts of spiced bourbon. 

“Four I’m tellin ya - ugliest little buggers hagfish are, just hideous.” Crowley tilted his head back and chuckled, his voice coming out in a low, gravelly slur as Aziraphale struggled to maintain his composure. Always struggling, Crowley noticed. 

Aziraphale was decidedly the most hardworking angel Crowley had ever met. And yet also the laziest. He worked at the things that mattered, Crowley supposed. Reputation, Earthly pleasures, courtesy and kindness. Fluffy shlock. 

“Four times the capacity to love then?” Aziraphale contemplated, holding a crystalline glass in hand and staring down at its golden brown contents. 

“They’re _fish_ angel, fish don’t love. You silly thing.”

“Demons aren’t supposed to love either, you know.” he said in a pointed response, glancing up with a hazy grin. 

Intoxication was… unbefitting of an angel, but Crowley had seen Aziraphale do things far worse than drink. Yet he was still somehow much more angelic to the demon than any of his ethereal princely pansy brethren. As he stared at the angel, leaning back against the cushion and tapping his pinkie against the glass, he grinned, “ _Shut up_.”

Aziraphale laughed, genuinely, the warmest giggle Crowley had ever heard. A warmth blossomed in his chest and he wet his lips, still tasting of cherry and bourbon. 

“But you do, don’t you?” The angel asked, raising his brows. Rather blunt question, but Aziraphale had always been painfully blunt, to the extent of near social awkwardness. Crowley appreciated it, he had a habit of beating tirelessly around bushes and shrubberies of the like, anything to avoid getting to the point. The point of the matter being that he was hopelessly in love with Aziraphale, and he had been for as long as he could recall. 

Yet the two of them were so intrinsically bound to the their own sides, the angel more than himself. Centuries spent toiling away at the whims of their superiors, how many hedges had they circled by now? Enough for a goose chase around the garden perhaps. It was fun, for the first four or five centuries at least.

And Crowley did not lust often. He did not desire in the same way humans desired, he did not bite his lip at the thought of undressing Aziraphale with his teeth and slithering along his body like the serpentine demon that he was. It was much less Aziraphale’s looks that riled Crowley up, but his presence. The way he spoke, the way he moved within the space provided, his choices. His eyes. Oh his eyes could reduce Crowley to a melted pile of mush if the angel tried hard enough.

The mortal vessel was not _unappealing_ though. Sometimes when Crowley looked to Aziraphale he did in fact imagine what laid beneath those clothes, a pleasant softness, a body that appreciated every taste the world had to offer, laid across loungers with piles of books, day in and day out. Tufts of soft hair to run fingers through, lips that pursed at the thought of something potentially immoral. 

Unless that something were phrased in just the right way.

“Crowley?”

“Hm? Oh yes what - what was that?” He shook himself from his reverie, setting his shades onto the table beside him with the empty glass. 

“You do, don’t you?”

“I do what now?”

“Come now Crowley you musn’t be so drunk as to - you are so horribly _difficult_ sometimes, you are aware of that right?” Aziraphale huffed and relieved himself of his jacket, setting it neatly on the back of the sofa. 

“I do.”

“What was that?” 

Crowley paused a moment, but only allowed three beats of his heart to pass before he cleared his throat, “I do, Aziraphale.”

The angel stared at him as if looking through him, beyond him, catching a glimpse of something far larger than the two of them, or this flat, this planet. Something dazzling and speckled like the twinkling lights of the galaxy, or clusters of such, spiralling out into the ever expanding, ineffable universe.

“... You do what Crowley?” A chuckle escaped him, a flush arising onto those cheeks of his, possibly from intoxication, likely out of a giddy bashfulness. 

“Oh you wily _minx_.” Crowley laughed with him, the both of them reveling in the moment, the warm amusement. “I do” he nodded, “I do love you.”

Silence, comfortable but all encompassing. They shared a gaze then, tepid it was anything but. Crowley still seethed with the hunger from before, he’d been starving for Aziraphale, waiting for the angel to discard his inhibitions, his worries and concerns about how it might backlash. Crowley wanted nothing more than the intimacy between them. He wanted to hold and touch and explore with every fiber of his being, not just this corporeal form, but the ways Aziraphale would respond to it all. A wistful sigh blew passed his lips.

Neither of them had acknowledged it. At the rate they’d been going, Crowley thought he might have to wait another four centuries at least.

Not to say he had any problem, moving at Aziraphale’s painfully slow pace.

But then Aziraphale bothered his lower lip between his teeth and he leaned forward at first, waiting a moment before continuing, crawling towards Crowley, over the body that laid along the couch cushions. 

He hovered there, Crowley let him, he didn’t dare protest. Nor did he make a movement to further the intimacy that already rested between them. Occasionally, without provocation, he’d hear those words again. 

_You move too fast for me, Crowley._

The last thing the demon wanted to do was ruin the progress they’d made, leaps and bounds compared to the last several centuries. 

“Crowley?”

The way Aziraphale said his name sobered him, even with alcohol still running through his blood. Dastardly stuff, he miracled much of it away, so as to appreciate it fully.

“Aziraphale?”

“... May I… have a taste again?”

Crowley was near incredulous, jaw dropping as his brows knit together, “Aziraphale is that even a _question_ you prissy little tar-”

The angel made the first move, fairly inexperienced, but eager to indulge. Crowley couldn’t stop himself from being a bit greedy, pressing a hand against his chest, fingers playing against the fabric, and then tugging at stupid cotton collar. Stylish he said it was, and now it dared to get in between he and Aziraphale.

A nuisance more like it.

“Crowley if you tug too hard I’ll fall on you” Aziraphale whispered with several low chuckles.

“Who’s to say that isn’t precisely what I want?” Breath was shared between them, spiced and warm, low notes of alcohol playing on their tongues as a heat traveled southward and blossomed in his core.

“To have the air knocked out of you? I’m not exactly light, Crowley.”

“I don’t exactly _care_ , angel.” 

Both of them smiled, a joke unspoken, and yet a punchline both of them knew. It had come to a point where the majority of what they said was hidden within what they did not say. 

Though neither of them said a thing, they were both thoroughly aware of just how flustered they’d become. Crowley because of the hilariously unsubtle shaft straining against the front of his somewhat tight trousers and Aziraphale because of that gleam in his eyes. It was a look he’d given Crowley sometime in the early nineteenth century, the first time he’d seen the demon in tight fitting pantaloons. The concentration intermingling dangerously with wanton yearning, lips parted and brows furrowed.

Crowley was certain he’d break the angel then, the shade of pink his face turned was priceless. 

“Perhaps I’d stop tugging if you took the damn thing off?” He was panting. Crowley didn’t often pant but he was short of breath, peculiarly enough. And so was Aziraphale, who smiled at the proposal. 

“... I’d like to have you, Crowley. If you’d let me.”

“ _Damn it_ Aziraphale, I’m supposed to be t-tempting you, no use in doing my job if you just… if you… do it for me…” he gnawed at the inside of his cheek, admiring how close their bodies were. Already his fingers laced themselves beneath buttons, plucking them out of place as though playing an ancient harp.

“... Take me then, angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will definitely be working on a part three, probably tomorrow after work. I wasn't super in the mood for smut just yet so please excuse me for being such a horrible cock tease. Perhaps I'll finish it tonight. Thank you for reading lovelies. Keep on sinning <3


	3. Buttons

“In all this time?” 

His voice came like the wind through the trees, breathing out against Crowley’s neck as he leaned into the pillow. Aziraphale was an angel, of course he’d want to be _above_ , on top. Why, it was only in his nature. 

“Well it was never really on the top of my priority list.”

His shirt was left halfway undone, it hung loosely over his chest and lower stomach, draped over jeans that hugged him in all the right places. Aziraphale never thought he’d be given the opportunity to watch indiscriminately. Now that he could, he let his eyes wander, consumed by the way the demon lurked beneath him, offering himself up not to heaven itself, but to Aziraphale. He was discarding all prior notions, all expectations, seeing Aziraphale not for light or dark but for who he was.

The angel wasn’t sure he deserved someone so brilliant. 

“Hate to spoil the mood here darling but I’m all hot and bothered and you’re not doing a whole lot of _touching_. How long is it you’ve been staring for? Five, ten minutes now?” 

Someone so utterly brash and rude.

“Feels like an eternity.” Aziraphale admitted, running his fingers beneath the material of his button up.

“Actually, it’s cashmere.”

He took pause, staring down at the demon and narrowing his eyes, “And you called _me_ a wily little minx.”

They shared a small moment of hushed laughter and playfully longing gazes, though as Crowley stared up at his angel, his brows tucked together against his forehead and for just a second he looked saddened. Even in the brevity, Aziraphale caught it, tilting his head. 

“Is an eternity still too fast for you, angel?”

A simple question, and yet one that sent Aziraphale right back to that moment between them, sitting beside Crowley as a vivid stream of reds and blues intermingled through car windows, playing against the circled lenses of his shades. Holy water, whimsically stored within a funny patterned thermos, handed over as if it were soup.

Soup that could have the both of them executed. Criminal soup.

Yet Aziraphale was willing to go out of his way to deliver it, willing to die over soup for Crowley. He hadn’t seen the demon quite as pleased as he was then, not for centuries at least. For a moment all his hardened edges were soft and gentle, and though his walls remained firmly planted and towering overhead, he held a hand out to Aziraphale. He offered to bridge the gap between their walls, he offered to build a fortress for them.

Just as quickly as Crowley had reached out, Aziraphale had closed himself off. Though of course, he hadn’t realized the effect it had on his dear friend.

Not until now.

“Oh Crowley-”

“ _Is it_?” 

Silence fell, two fingers plucking the last buttons from their place, a demon at his mercy. He looked up to meet serpentine gaze, shaking his head once, twice, a third time for certainty. “It isn’t… is it too slow for you Crowley?”

Crowley was up nearly before Aziraphale could finish his sentence, pulling him into another cherry flavored kiss, their lips crashing like waves against the ark, tongues tasting and exploring angrily. There was too much time they’d lost, playing coy, never as close as they wanted to be. 

He was afraid, on occasion, of his dear friend losing interest in him. Perhaps he was too bland, perhaps he didn’t meet Crowley’s physical appetite or the expectations he had.

“I’d wait another if I had to.” He said, the reassurance rushing to Aziraphale’s cheeks in pale pinks against his skin. His movements became more rushed, desperation wafting off of him in heated waves as he tugged at the few articles of clothing that dared to get between his hands and the skin beneath it. 

“Crowley…” a soft, wistful sigh escaped his lips, pure admiration riddling his voice so pleasantly.

“I could just demonic miracle away all of this-” Crowley panted, never once breaking away from the delightful hurricane between them as he tugged at Aziraphale’s jacket, cut the angel’s bottom lip between his teeth, drawing him forward - closer.

“I’m of mind to savor this you impatient fiend.” he protested, watching with low lidded eyes as the demon snaked fingers beneath his own shirt, pulling apart only for a moment to tug it above his head. How liberated he felt, being able to do so. 

It was freeing, to feel so painfully human. Action for the sake of action and nothing else. To taste of the moment and all the flavors it had to offer. A shiver ran down his spine as lips trailed along his chest, kissing and nipping at skin unscathed, reveling in the softness of his figure.

Crowley had always been more lean than him, even upon creation. He wasn’t the most desireable by modern day standards, but that didn’t seem to deter Crowley in the slightest. What did seem to deter him however, or at the very least annoy him, was the trousers and their tricky buttons. 

“But I could, it’d be awfully convenient yeah?”

“Honestly Crowley… no man is worth the trouble.” Aziraphale hummed and tilted his head back, running his hands up through burnt ginger.

“Good thing I’m no man then, right?”

Whatever he was, Crowley was so horribly charming. He always had been, sauntering about with his golden eyes, expressing each and everything he felt with brutal honesty. Unless what he felt was fear. Fear of being cast into oblivion, fear of losing his best friend, fear of absent reciprocity. 

But oh did Aziraphale reciprocate. The strain against the trousers that were putting up a fair fight against the slightly disoriented demon was evidence enough that he wanted this just as much as Crowley did. Only he had a bit more resolve. That was, until Crowley gripped him over the material, grasped him firmly, demanding his undivided attention. Lucky him, he’d always had it.

“Fine fine Crowley you win just -” a sharp gasp escaped him when long, slim fingers squeezed him tenderly. “Oh heavens just do away with them already.”  
And just like that they’d discarded their remaining articles of clothing, the both of them bare in the dim light of Crowley’s bedroom, laying atop a disheveled bedspread, a demon pressed into an angel’s lap. 

Aziraphale was so distracted by the sudden heat flourishing at his core that he didn’t even stop to think about how incredulous his peers might be, seeing the display, the show he and his dear… his dear lover had put on.

He only thought of Crowley, lips upon lips until they were swollen and sore. Lips upon skin, leaving trails of beautiful bruises in their wake. Crowley was the first to take action, gripping the two of them in one hand, shafts throbbing against one another. Aziraphale did not stifle the groan that emerged from him like a happy purr, but Crowley seemed to quiet himself. He seemed oddly _concentrated_.

“You needn’t hold yourself back Crowley.” he whispered, pressing kisses to the corners of his lips.

“If I don’t I’ll… You’re beautiful Aziraphale… you’re like a winged supernova, you’re everything.” Frankly he seemed like he might cry, and in turn, Aziraphale felt he might cry as well.

“Then do, Crowley, do to your heart’s content. Come for me.”

That did it, that brought Crowley over the edge, and Aziraphale watched as the demon unraveled and tensed. As his jaw fell slack and his eyes shut tight and he let out a merciful groan that was downright sinful. 

The sights, the sounds, they nearly brought Aziraphale over the edge as well. But he kept himself at bay for Crowley’s sake, and because there was so much more he wished to explore. That in itself was evident enough when two fingers pressed into the demon’s entrance amidst his climax, miracuously, already thoroughly slicked down.

The movement provoked another groan, and Aziraphale decided then that pulling Crowley apart was quite an addiction. Another earthly pleasure that the angel reveled in.

“May I Crowley? May I-”

“Oh god just cut the theatrics angel please just fuck me or I’ll-” Lips again, angry as a storm ridden sea. He wanted to give Crowley his all, and he knew that he could handle his all. For as human as this was, neither of them were restrained by the bounds of humanity.

Though before he could move to pull Crowley down onto him, Crowley sunk along his shaft, taking him to his hilt, a blissful gasp escaping the both of them. Arms wrapped around Aziraphale’s neck, kisses peppering his collarbones.  
“There’s… there’s no need for profanities Crowley.” Aziraphale said through heady moans as Crowley slowly rode the cock beneath him, a string of curses following his rhythm.

“Touch me Aziraphale.” 

He did as he was told, surprised that there was no witty remark in retort to his teasing, no sharp worded barking as he wrapped his fingers around Crowley’s weeping length. He’d reduced the demon to nothing but slurring and moans, and he’d hardly moved other than to meet the pace that Crowley had set.

So he pressed Crowley down onto the mattress and lithe legs wrapped around his waist as he buried himself into searing hot depths. It was Aziraphale who took the wheel this time, stirring into him with every fiber of his being, slow and deliberate pounding, a treatment that had Crowley throwing his head back and baring the length of his throat to the angel above him.

“Crowley…” Teeth bothered sensitive flesh, tears streamed down the demon’s cheeks, a room filled with the sounds of loving sin, their voices intermingling in the creation of a lewd cacophony as the flush of their hips provided a beat.

He held Crowley then closer than he ever had, sharing breath and tongue and lips, warmth pooling into him, “Crowley I’m close, I’m so close darling I’m-”

“Do it, god, do it Aziraphale, fill me - cum, _please_.”

He was seeing stars, submerging himself one last time, as deeply as he could, before he finally released heavy and hot. Crowley hissed and held him closer as nails dug into the pale skin of his back. A stinging pain that did nothing but accentuate the violently rapturous climax.

Even once they’d calmed, once Aziraphale had finished and pulled himself out, Crowley clung to him still. And he did the same. They had hundreds of years to make up for.

“... Cashmere and wool actually.”

“ _What?_ ” Aziraphale glanced at him, amusement playing on his exhausted features.

“The suit it’s cashmere _and_ wool, just too much that is, cashmere alone. Not very practical if ya ask me.”

“Oh Crowley… pipe down would you?” Aziraphale laughed and pressed his lips to the crook of Crowley’s neck, grinning in euphoria.

“... Well at least it’s not cotton.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I *might* make this a series. I have ideas for the plot, but I really am interested in an au, I feel like I couldn't dare touch the canon direction of things. Perhaps an A/B/O? Still not sure. Thanks for reading.


	4. Jet Fuel Can't Melt Steel Beams

It was a boundless land of pastoral mint hues and fluffy white sheep that flocked in herds of six. The piers dropped to a roaring sea, swept the coast of darkened sands and flourishing vegetation. A beauty that rivaled Eden itself, but paled in comparison to Aziraphale, in Crowley’s eyes. 

One would never guess that armageddon nearly began with this little town.

It was a small cottage of brick and cobblestone, ivy climbing each side, a hedge built all around it dotted with white and purple wild flowers and a grand little garden inhabited by creatures of varying size and shape. From magpies to mice and everything in between, all coexisting in a yard.

Their yard. 

Their side of paradise. 

“Well it is no Alpha Centauri but I do hope you don’t-”

Crowley silenced him, grabbing him by the wrist and pulling him into the most breathtaking kiss he could muster from the very depths of his being. Good or bad, neither suited them. No, what they were was indescribable, some grey area, teetering between sin and something inexplicably, ineffably holy.

“Oh shut up angel.”

“Shutting up.” Aziraphale whispered against Crowley’s lips, a hand brushing through his updo of hair, pale through ginger, gripping at him tenderly. Crowley was no stickler for reciprocity, both hands fell upon his waist, a hunger driving him to pull Aziraphale flush against him, to feel the warmth that radiated from the angel as though he were a walking ray of the sun itself. 

“... Is this a bad time?”

Anathema Device. She wasn’t the type of girl that shortened her name, despite what it meant, four syllables be damned. Crowley knew her vaguely, and he made little move to pull away when he heard her voice. Aziraphale on the other hand jolted up and patted himself down as if he’d been messied by their brief dalliance. 

“Oh no no, of course not, please excuse my…”

There was a pause. Boyfriend? No, that was too divisive. Not quite as profound. A bit insulting considering all they’d gone through. It didn’t sound right.

“... Partner.” Crowley finished, his tone more questioning than it was confirmative. 

Aziraphale turned to him with upturned parted lips, “Ahh… Yes, yes _partner_.” He sighed wistfully and Crowley watched him through his shades with a partially hidden gaze but no less admiration.

“... So it is a bad time then?” She was holding a basket, tapping her fingers along the handle with a brow quirked expectantly. 

“No no, do accept my apologies - our apologies, Anathema was it?”

The young witch was taken aback, clearly she couldn’t recall either of them. Crowley had also momentarily forgotten about the fact that most everyone within the span of these last twelve years or so had forgotten them. Everyone human at least. 

Even little Adam Young. Pity that. It was a bit sad to be forgotten by the antichrist himself.

“Yes it… I don’t… Pleased to meet you, I’m your neighbor, from a few houses down, I thought I’d bring you a housewarming gift… Do I know you actually? You both seem familiar somehow.”

“Oh heavens no-”

“Unlikely.” Crowley nodded, shoving both of his hands into his pockets.

“Completely improbable really.”

“Not possible. Not even a little bit.”

Anathema’s gaze darted between them and she cleared her throat, “... Right. Well my boyfriend and I bake sometimes, these are scones and a dozen or so cookies. He wanted me to take them to you.”

“Ah I see, well why didn’t he come along with you then? We would have loved to meet him.” 

“ _You_ would have loved to meet him.” Crowley muttered, earning himself a slap to the forearm.

“Now don’t you be rude Crowley.” Aziraphale scolded, shaking his head.

“He’s a pussy.” Anathema said as she shrugged her shoulders and handed the basket over to Aziraphale, who seemed very eager about its contents. He had such a ravenous sweet tooth. It gave him a lovely taste. 

“... Oh. Well… Would you like to come in, Anathema? I could put a pot of tea onto the stove for you.”

Crowley shifted about and slouched back against the hedge. Ah yes, he’d nearly forgotten just how hospitable Aziraphale really was. How painfully irritating. And revoltingly adorable. So he stared, quite blatantly as well, Anathema must’ve caught onto it because she seemed somewhat uncomfortable.

“... Sure yeah. I didn’t catch your names.”

“I am Aziraphale” he stood aside to let her step onto the path towards the front door, leading her forward as he gestured to his partner, “And this is Crowley. We have known each other for just a tad bit over six thousand years. Time does fly on so quickly now doesn’t it?”

Anathema laughed, she must have taken that as a joke. Most humans did, that was the point. Crowley grinned, he found amusement in how quick humans were in discarding what sounded absurd to them. And while he wasn’t exactly fond of them, they could be quite cute.

Though Anathema was a witch, a descendant of Agnes Nutter for that matter. Crowley had no doubt that she had the capacity to see through their shenanigans. She would know eventually, what they were. And it hardly mattered, considering that neither of them had sides to be reprimanded by. So long as they didn’t spring up too much of a racket, he doubted they’d be hunted down.

“The two of you aren’t… human, are you?”

Oh, well that was faster than he’d expected.

Aziraphale stood aside to let both Crowley and her by, shutting the door behind him and blinking, though smiling warmly. He always did love being acknowledged, talking about himself, mostly about what he liked.

Good thing Crowley loved to listen.

“Well… No, Ms. Device, though I suspect that you are not entirely human yourself.”

“Oh _suspect_? Why that's bein a bit generous don’t you think? This one here’s a lot more clever than he looks, don’t let him deceive you.” Crowley bickered playfully, leaning against the counter as Aziraphale poured water into the kettle and set it atop the burner. The look he received in retort to his comment was downright laughable. 

As if Aziraphale could glare at him with any semblance of honest distaste or malice. If anything, he only managed to get Crowley hot and bothered. 

“Why, I think I look plenty clever, I’m a rather… tosh fellow I believe.”

“I don’t know what tosh means but, what he said.” Anathema shrugged as she gestured to the angel that was fishing through the treat basket, as Crowley figured he would. Props to him for waiting thirty seconds longer than the demon had predicted. 

“Hasn’t changed his hairstyle in six thousand years, what a right tosh fellow he is.” Crowley mocked.

“Oh why you crude little serpent.” Aziraphale glanced back at him and winked, biting into one of the cookies - presumably chocolate chip. “Heavens this is delightful, and you baked these yourself? I must say these are quite impressive.”

“I did yeah, I bake a lot for the kids around the neighborhood, they’re sweet, sometimes they light things on fire but… You know, kids.” 

“When you’ve eaten biscuits from England for the past two hundred years I suppose anything is impressive in comparison.” Crowley muttered, running a hand through his hair. 

“I say Crowley, you’ve quite the attitude problem today.” Aziraphale scolded, finishing off his cookie and offering one to Anathema, who seemed thoroughly entertained.

“All I’m saying is that the English traveled the world looking for spices and the like, and then decided they just didn’t want to use them.”

Her laughter interrupted them, a gleeful eruption, hand covering her lips as she leaned back against her chair, “You two bicker like a married couple. It’s hilarious. I really should bring Newton around sometime, anything to get him out of the house.”

She and Aziraphale engaged in some conversation following that, he made her tea, they spoke of climate change, pollution, Dick Cheney, a number of odd conspiracies that Crowley had no interest in. 

But he did have interest in one thing, something she’d mentioned fleetingly. Marriage. A divine union. Typically executed within the bounds of a church. He wasn’t exactly fond of churches, or consecrated grounds in general. But the word “husband” did ring a bit of a bell. His eyes flickered down to his fingers. No rings or jewelry, nor markings of any kind. 

He wouldn’t mind one though, a silver band perhaps, something simple, with a bit of flair. Tasteful complication.  
It suddenly occurred to him as he stood there silently listening to Anathema go on about how Bush most definitely did 9/11, that he did in fact want to marry Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello yes it is me thriving upon domesticity. I'm writing the ending that I wanted to see, which involved some delectable cocktail of fluff and smut. Please enjoy my mindless self indulgence.


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